


Learning How to Bend

by blackcoffeeandteardrops



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s11e10 My Struggle IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14159442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcoffeeandteardrops/pseuds/blackcoffeeandteardrops
Summary: Post MS4. Mulder, Scully, & William come to terms with their new reality.





	Learning How to Bend

“It's more than impossible,” Scully says, resting her hand atop Mulder's on her abdomen. She buries her face in his shirt, pressing her forehead as hard as she can against his chest. If she could, she'd burrow a hole and hide herself there. “Oh, Mulder,” she cries, not bothering to wipe at the hot tears flowing down her cheeks. 

Mulder tilts his head back, staring at the sky that's haunted him for years. How many times has he stared up at the stars in hopes of finding answers to questions he’s never stopped asking? He rubs a hand down her back, thinking not just of her or the life impossibly growing inside of her, but also the boy whose body was slowly drifting through the water beside them. “We should call for help, Scully. They need to drag the river. We need to--”

At that, her shoulders start shaking even harder. “I didn't mean it. What I said. He's our son. William is our son, Mulder. No matter what Skinner or Spender or anyone says. It won’t change that.”

“I know,” Mulder says, unable to say much else. He blinks back tears of his own, knowing that she blames herself, but helpless at knowing how to fix it. “Scully, you can’t beat yourself up about it. You can’t. Especially now,” he says, furrowing his brow. At the time, Scully refusing to go with him to find William made so little sense, but now the pieces start clicking together. “When did you find out?”

“A few days ago. But Mulder, this wasn’t something I wanted to keep from you. Not ever. Considering our history, I wanted to be absolutely certain before telling you anything,” she says, pulling back enough to look him in the eyes. She shakes her head, smiling sadly as a lump grows in her throat. “Before I knew it wasn’t you, there was something William told me. He kept telling me to let him go, that he needs to work through everything on his own. And he said--” she pauses, her breath hitching in her chest. Had it not been for the fact William sacrificed himself, the truth would have felt like such a relief, but instead it was more bittersweet. “He said he knows I love him, Mulder. Those were his last words to me.”

Mulder nods his head, soaking it all in. He thinks of the way he’d so desperately wrapped his son in a hug at the hotel, eager to protect him from the evils of the world. Of course, at the time, he hadn’t entirely known what his son was capable of. The image of Erica Price’s head exploding to bits was a sight he wouldn’t soon forget. “He’s incredible, Scully,” he replies, brushing a tear away from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, knowing that in a way he’s sugar coating things, but also knowing it’s the truth. His son--and that’s what he is, Mulder knows, in spite of what Skinner told Scully--was incredible, if not also at times incredibly dangerous, but he knows it’s something they can work through if given the chance. His evil biological father had gotten one last dig at their lives before sinking into the abyss, but no clandestine conversation will change what he knows in his heart.

Scully blinks a few times in a feeble attempt at trying to clear her vision, and suddenly she grips Mulder’s arm, clinging tight for fear of falling if she doesn’t. At once, it’s not the night sky and Mulder’s face that she’s seeing, but a street light reflecting into murky water. A sudden shift in the wind, a chill despite the time of year, draws her back to the here and now. She lets go of Mulder’s arm and her mouth falls open, shaking her head in disbelief. “He’s alive,” she says, furiously casting her eyes towards the water for any sign of movement. “He couldn’t have gotten far, unless he started swimming. But Mulder--”

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Mulder asks. He’s heard enough impossible news for one night, and he’s not sure how many miracles he and Scully deserve, but hearing that William is alive is one he wants so badly to believe. “You saw him?”

“I could see what he was seeing. He was climbing out of the water. Mulder, he’s alive,” she replies, staring into the inky darkness hovering about the water, as if focusing even harder would suddenly make William appear. Still, reality is not as kind as she’d sometimes like for it to be, so she looks at Mulder and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “He’ll come to us when he’s ready,” she says, wishing things could be different. Wishing she could track him down and make him listen will do no good. He’s suggested as much, and so she closes her eyes and breathes in deep, trying to stave off the exhaustion that’s slowly catching up to her. “Take me home, Mulder. Please.”

He’s gone from watching his son get shot to learning he’s going to be a father again, to learning that William is alive in a matter of minutes. It’s enough to make anyone’s head spin, but while Mulder has been sapped of whatever energy he has for the time being, he knows full well he can and will do this. That they have no other choice, especially now. He tries bringing up details from pregnancy books he’d read when they’d agreed to try eons ago, tries to invision how small this new life must be. He hears the sound of police sirens and knows they don’t have long before they’re cornered and questioned. The questions will come soon enough, they always have, but he prays he’s strong enough to help them withstand whatever comes their way. “Home,” he says, letting go of her hand in favor of slinging a protective arm around her shoulders. “That sounds like a good idea.”

The police come and Scully stands by, arms wrapped tight around herself, aware she might appear standoffish, but she couldn't care less. She listens, nodding and pitching in when appropriate to the information Mulder gives the officers. Yes, there is a body in the water and yes, he was shot in self defense. The evidence will support it, she says, shaking just as much from her frayed emotions as she is from the cold. 

When their statements have been taken, Mulder rubs his hands together for warmth before cupping her face, resting his forehead against hers. They're in their own private world, a momentary solace amidst all the chaos. “Have you seen anything else?” he whispers.

Scully shakes her head, sniffling a little. “No,” she replies. The disappointment in her voice is evident. 

“Do you,” Mulder replies, pulling back. He shifts his gaze to the detectives working the scene, and he grips her elbow gently, moving them further out of earshot. “Do you want to go looking? He’s on foot, so he couldn't have gotten far.”

“No,” Scully replies, appreciating that no matter how much Mulder himself might wish for it, he’ll hold off looking if she wants him to. “Mulder, he told me to let him go. I can't do that, you know I can't, but--”

“We can give him time,” Mulder says, slowly nodding his head. It's not ideal, but if giving William time might make the boy clear his head and come to them on his own, Mulder figures it's worth a try. “Let's go home.”

Somewhere along the way, lulled by the silence and the smooth ride, Scully rests her head against the window and falls asleep, waking up only when she feels Mulder gently shaking her awake. “Home already?” she asks, pushing herself up in the passenger seat. 

“Yes,” Mulder says, tightening his hands around the steering wheel, focusing very intently on their porch steps where he’s pretty sure he knows what he’s seeing, but he desperately wants her to confirm it for him. “Scully, tell me my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me,” he says, pulling the car to a stop. He unbuckles his seatbelt, listening as Scully gasps, drawing a hand to her mouth.

“Mulder,” she whispers, for fear of breaking the moment. Her eyes hone in on the figure slumped against the wall at the top of their porch steps, and she knows without even stepping out of the car that it’s William. “How did he get here before us? How did he know where to go?”

“I don’t know, but let’s find out,” he replies. Simultaneously, he and Scully step out of the car. He catches her eye across the hood, knowing that neither one of them want to mess this moment up. 

“Jackson,” Scully says, carefully stepping closer. His name sounds strange coming from her mouth, she knows this, but if she’s to gain any ground with him, she wants her son to feel comfortable. 

William looks up at her, shaking his head as he stands to greet them, walking down a few steps to not fully tower over her. If the moment weren’t so serious, he thinks he might’ve cracked a joke about how short she was. Somehow, he’s imagined his mother being taller. “Not Jackson,” he says, again shaking his head. He remembers hearing the name his parents gave him earlier that night and what a relief it had been, but he knows it’s different now. “I’m not...I’m not Jackson. Not anymore. I don’t know that I’m William either. You guys...you named me William, didn’t you?”

“We did,” Mulder replies, placing a hand on Scully’s shoulder as they watch their son process his response. “How did you know to come here?”

“I saw this place sometimes, when I’d dream. Maybe I was dreaming, I guess. I know it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t,” William says. He clenches his jaw and draws a deep breath through his nose, willing himself to remain calm. He’d promised himself before they arrived that he could do this. It wasn’t like he had many other options. He looks to Scully, watching as she averts her eyes, afraid of staring at him too long. His birth parents are standing here, holding onto each other, and the only way to get into their home is to go past him. “I wasn’t followed. I made sure of it,” he says, waiting until Scully looks up to continue speaking. “I know what I said, about needing to do this on my own. About you not being able to keep me safe. I didn’t say it to hurt you. I said it because I’m afraid of what I can do. I’m afraid that if I screw up, or if they catch me, that they’ll hurt me. That they’ll hurt you. You don’t deserve that.”

Scully steps closer, only to see a flicker of a flinch flash across his features, there and gone in an instant. She looks at his clothes, still clinging to his skin and damp from his time in the water, and points in the direction of the front door. “Will you come inside? We could put your clothes in the wash. Mulder has some things you can change into until they’re dry.”

William looks to Mulder, almost feeling guilty for taking his clothes, but getting the impression he wouldn’t mind. “So it’s okay that I’m here?”

Mulder looks to Scully, catching the way her lip quivers and how she is all but restraining herself from leaping forward at their son. “Yes. Of course,” he says, clearing his throat as he points towards the house. He scans the property line, wary despite William insisting he wasn’t followed. Satisfied, he presses a hand to the small of Scully’s back, urging her forward. “Let’s go inside.”

William waits for them to enter before following suit, his eyes drinking in the room around them. The office to one side, files and books stacked haphazardly atop the desk, and to the other side a couch and tv. He walks deeper into the house with Mulder and Scully trailing behind him, both afraid to say anything for fear of shattering the moment. At the entrance to the kitchen he spins towards them and shrugs, resting a hand on his hip. “So this is where you guys live?”

“Yes,” Scully says, and even when she didn’t live here it was still true. A part of her had never left, but had still been tucked between the pillows on the couch and the paintings on the walls, buried beneath the detritus that littered the desk in the den. “I know it’s not much, but it’s home.”

Mulder cocks his head in the direction of the stairs, feeling cautiously hopeful. “I’ll show you where everything is. Although you’re taller than me, so I can’t promise they’ll be a perfect fit.”

“It’s fine,” William says, not bothering to add that they’d be the first clean clothes he’s worn in days. Hiding out and dodging authorities doesn’t exactly give you much time to do laundry or pilfer new clothes from the store either. 

Scully watches them disappear from view and waits until she can’t hear their footsteps any longer to move from the spot she’d rooted herself in. She moves into the kitchen, opening the fridge, and it’s not until she stares inside that she realizes how hungry she is. They’ve been running and searching for WIlliam for so long, she knows neither she or Mulder has taken the time to eat anything, and she figures it’s a safe bet that William hasn’t either. She’d fixed a batch of her mother’s beef stew over the weekend--had even dug out one of Maggie’s old recipe books to make sure she did it right--and figures it’s better to reheat that than waste time trying to cook something else. 

She hears something, a branch scraping against the window maybe, and halts with the container of stew in her hands, counting a full ten seconds before she feels calm again. She wonders if the other two occupants of the house feel just as on edge as she does. Or three, she thinks, casting her eyes downward. “You’ll have to put up with me for a while,” she says, feeling just the slightest bit absurd. Aside from the doctor who confirmed the details, Mulder is the only one who knows. 

By the time Mulder and William come back downstairs, she’s managed to heat the stew and poured three bowls of it, leaving them to cool on the table. She takes in William’s slack jawed look and hopes she hasn’t messed this up. “I don’t know what you like to eat. I can make something else if you want, or if you’re not hungry, it’s fine. I just thought--”

“You have to try it,” Mulder says, urging William forward. “Unless you’re vegetarian? Maggie Scully’s beef stew is legendary. Come on, have a seat.”

“Who’s Maggie?” William asks, picking up his spoon as he pulls his chair closer to the table, the sound of the legs scraping against the floor the only sound in the room. 

“She was my mother,” Scully says, tucking her chin towards her chest as she scooped a spoonful of stew into her mouth to stop herself from saying anything else. There are so many things she wants her son to know, and she hopes she can tell him in time, but the fact he is here is miracle enough for the time being.

“Was?” William asked. He thinks he’s picked up on the mood, has seen this sadness in her within his dreams, but unknowingly pokes the still healing bruise, eager to learn more of their shared history. “She died?” he asks, his voice soft, when she doesn’t respond. The moment of pain that flashes through her nearly burns him, and without thinking about it he quickly reaches out for her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Scully stares at their joined hands on the table, recalling how when he was a baby his hand would grasp her fingers, testing his grip. She fights the lump growing in her throat and she nods. “Yes, she was. Your grandmother,” she says. The guilt of thinking him little more than an experiment starts to surge through her mind, but she fights it back. What Skinner told her couldn’t possibly be true, and even if it is, she knows it’s through the smoke fogged lense of the man who they couldn’t possibly begin to trust. William is her son and she is his mother, whether she has raised him or not.

“I want to say I’m sorry for making you think I was dead, but you have to understand why I did it,” William says, pulling his hand away. He’s welcome here, he knows it, but it doesn’t make the situation any less absurd. “I’m dangerous. You can tell me I’m not, but it’s still true. The things I’ve done in the past few months, just to stay alive--”

“Hey,” Mulder says, realizing only after he’s spoken just how harsh his tone is. He remembers shouting the same word just hours before, seconds prior to pumping the man bent on destroying them full of lead. Sitting at the table with the people who matter most to him, he’s never hoped more that the cancer man stays dead this time. “You did what you had to do. I know. And as for, well--” he stops, debating how far into detail he should go. How can he explain to Scully that he’s seen how violent their son can be in person, and how can he explain to William that even if he is dangerous, it doesn’t change anything? “You did what you have to do to be safe. But you don’t have to go through it alone. Not anymore.”

William is silent, staring at the table. He takes another bite of the stew, chewing slowly to buy himself a few seconds to come up with a response. “This is better than gas station sandwiches and nachos. Thanks.”

Scully laughs, a soft and hesitant sound bubbling from her lips, and she smiles. “I suppose that's a compliment,” she replies. She glances in his direction, noting how tight he holds his spoon and the stiffness in his shoulders. He's practically vibrating with energy, and despite eating with them, William isn't entirely comfortable. “Did you hear what he said? You don't have to do this by yourself. I know what you said, back at the docks, but--”

“But you guys can protect me. You can help me, is that it?” William asks. His tone is short, cutting them to the quick, and he knows it. “Look, honestly? I came here so you guys would...I don't know, see I was alive, I guess. I thought maybe seeing I was okay might be enough. But it's not, is it?”

“I’m going to clean these up,” Scully says, gathering their bowls. “The living room would be a bit more comfortable for this conversation.”

Mulder pulls his bowl away, reaching for the one in Scully's hands. He catches the way her eyebrow raises, asking without words why he’s stood up so suddenly. “Let me clean up, you go sit down. I’ve got this.”

“Mulder, just because--” Scully says, stopping herself from saying much else. Maybe Mulder’s offer to clean up is his attempt to give her and William time alone, or maybe it’s in light of the proverbial bomb she'd dropped earlier, or maybe a mix of both. But as she catches their son hesitantly standing out of the corner of her eye, she doesn't think now is the best time to tell him about their new addition. “Okay. Sure.”

In the living room, William wanders past the couch, lifting a book from a shelf and reading the cover before putting it back where he found it. He moves on, reading other titles and studying various trinkets on the shelves. He spots the snowglobe she'd grabbed from his room and laughs as his picks it up from the shelf, momentarily forgetting his surroundings. “You kept this?”

Scully shrugs, lacing her hands together, watching his movements from her spot near the sofa. “It just needed some glue. You can still see the cracks, but it's fixed.”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” he replies, carefully putting the snowglobe back where he found it. He feels her gaze on him, watching his every move. She’s not coming closer and the anxiety in her expression is evident, but she's still not backing down. “This is weird, right?” 

“Maybe it is,” Scully concedes. “But weird isn't always a bad thing.”

“She's right,” Mulder says, emerging from the kitchen. He flicks his gaze between them, trying to hazard a guess at the mood of the room. “Weird is kind of our speciality.”

“Except I’m not just some weird X-File,” William replies, judging by their surprised expressions they didn't see that one coming. “I might've looked you up. I needed to know who you were, before I knew if I could trust you.”

“And do you?” Scully asks, already knowing it's not that easy. “Trust us, I mean. You came here, which means you must know on some level we're worthy of that trust.”

William opens his mouth, prepared to respond, only to narrow it back again instead. There's been a subtle shift, a slight change in the air they haven't noticed yet, so he knows he has to say something. “Someone's here.”

Mulder, alarmed, moves to the window. “We have alarms on the perimeter of the property. They'd have sounded if--” he stops speaking as the security system--a perk they'd made adjustments to when Scully moved back in--beeps, signaling someone is indeed entering their property. He parts the curtains, studying the black SUV slowly driving up the path. “We answered questions earlier, what could they possibly want?”

“Me,” William says, his voice shaking. “I knew it wasn't safe to come here.”

“We don't know that it's you they're after,” Scully says, walking towards him with her hands held out, eager to offer him some meager sense of reassurance. “They likely just have a few follow up questions, and then they'll be on their way.”

“No, they won't. How are you going to explain me, hmm?” he asks, squeezing his eyes shut. He rubs at his forehead where the bullet had been mere hours before. “I was shot in the head. I shouldn't even be alive, do you understand that? I need to go.”

“William, please,” she pleads, gripping his arm, stopping him midstep as he charges toward the kitchen. “I know everything that's happening is confusing. It's impossible even,” she says, gripping his arm harder as she feels herself swaying, dizzy from everything the past few days have dealt them. She hears the truck doors slamming outside and knows they don't have long until they're interrupted. “But if you stay, we can figure it all out together.”

William takes a deep breath, drawing in so much air his lungs feel like they could burst. He could do it again--make these cops that are making their way to the door explode into a pile of blood and bits of bone, but he doesn't want to do that. He looks to Mulder, thinking he might not be as understanding this time around. “I can't,” he says, looking to Scully, watching as she closes her eyes, as if willing herself to remain composed. He flicks his gaze lower, squinting his eyes and shaking his head. “Besides, what do you need me for anymore?”

Scully gasps, jerking her hand away like she's been burned. “I will always--” she says, not finishing her sentence because there's a knock at the door. She turns toward the direction of the sound, all but glaring at whatever poor detective or beat cop happened to be on the other side. “Stay, we can--” she says, the rest of the sentence dying on her tongue when she sees he’s quietly slipped from the room. She looks to Mulder who is just as irritated at the intrusion as she is, and moves to answer the door. 

Mulder takes charge then, answering their questions as politely as he can. Yes, they were there, and yes the cancer man shot first, and didn't they cover all of this at the scene? It's not until now that he hears about Reyes and Skinner, the latter of which would likely be thanking his lucky stars, providing he wakes up again.

“Monica tried to help us,” Scully says as soon as the officers leave. She stares at Mulder's chest, reaching out blindly for his hand. “She may not have been wholly honest, but she tried to help. She didn't deserve to die,” she continues, her chin quivering as whatever remains of her strength quickly dissolves. When Mulder pulls her to him, she doesn't back away. “And who knows if Skinner will ever walk again? It's not fair, Mulder. Nothing about any of this is fair.”

“Well, there is one good thing,” he replies, pulling away just enough to press the palm of his hand against her abdomen. His eyes meet hers and he smiles, cautious. “You're sure?”

Scully nods, slowly blowing the breath she'd been holding from her mouth. She rests her hand atop his, rubbing at the back of his fingers with her thumb. “I know it's not the most ideal of circumstances, but we’ll make this work, won't we?”

“Scully, this baby has the unfortunate luck of having us as their parents. But if the five missed calls and multiple text messages from Kersh are any indication, we’ll have a little free time on our hands,” Mulder replies, looping his arms around her, resting them against her back. He presses his forehead against hers and sighs, debating how best to approach what he wants to tell her next. “He didn't leave.”

“What?” Scully asks, afraid to believe what he's surely implying. “Mulder, I saw him run out the back of the house. Even if he couldn't have gotten far, he still thought leaving was better than staying here.”

“I don't think that's true,” Mulder replies. He breaks away, focusing his stare at the wall behind her, as if through sheer will alone William might appear. “Do you remember the barn? Near the back of the property? You kept telling me I should renovate, and I haven't--”

“Mulder, I have been standing on my feet for more hours than I can count. I witnessed who I thought was you but was evidently William masquerading as you get shot, and now miraculously he’s alive. But he doesn't want to be here, and as much as I might like for him to, I can't force it,” she says. She reaches for him, grasping at the hoodie still marked with blood, pulling him closer without stepping into his space. “What's your point, Mulder? Don't give me hope unless you have evidence to back it up. We’ve already lost too much tonight.”

The pleading tone her voice takes is nearly enough to make him cry. He's seen her vulnerable so many times, but never like this. “When I walked the officers back to their cars, I saw him. He was standing between the trees, watching. When he saw me looking, he didn't bolt. He just stood there watching for a few seconds before turning back into the woods. And maybe I’m wrong, Scully. I don't have evidence, not yet. But think about it. He wants to be safe, to have a place to stay without constantly being on the run. And you've watched the tape as much as I have, if not more. He wants to know you, Scully,” he says, reaching with one hand to brush a tendril of hair behind her ear. “One of us can go back and check once it's light out. And if he's there, or there's evidence he's been there, we’ll know.”

It's a small solace, she thinks, that William would seek shelter so close to home. Still, the words she spoke earlier have wounded herself deeper than she'd care to admit. “What kind of mother can I hope to be to him if he ever comes around, or to this new baby, considering what I said, Mulder? I doubted myself. I doubted evidence that I know to be true. He's our son, Mulder. Our son. He's not...not some lab experiment. He's not.”

“I know he's not,” Mulder replies, doubting it’ll make a difference. What Scully needs is evidence, and he hopes in time she’ll get it, that they both will. “You have the hair sample you took from him a few months ago, right? Test it against my DNA like you did against yours if you need to be sure.”

Slowly, Scully nods, enveloping his hand in hers. “That's a good idea,” she says. Had she been more awake, she might have suggested it herself. “I’m going to bed. Will you come up? Even if you can't sleep.”

There's an invitation in her words, an unasked question. Not for anything untoward, but for the comfort his embrace has always given her. They fall asleep in the middle of their bed, just as light starts bleeding into the sky. 

It’s mid morning by the time Scully wakes. She meets Mulder downstairs, resting her hands on his shoulders as he takes a large sip of coffee. “Did you eat anything?”

“I wasn’t hungry,” Mulder replies. He reaches for her hand sitting on his shoulder and holds it there. They’ve both gotten a few hours sleep, but he knows good and well it wasn’t restful. “Are you going to go look around?”

She smiles and moves closer to his chair, wrapping her arms around him, clasping them together against his chest. She rests her cheek against his hair, breathing him in, enjoying the moment for what it is; a nice reprieve in a world left in upheaval. She appreciates that he’s giving her this choice, having expected more resistance from him. It’s a Schrodinger's cat situation; William could be waiting for them, but he also couldn’t, and if she doesn’t look they’ll never know. “I have to know.”

Mulder nods, feeling the weight of her chin pressed against his head. “I know you do,” he replies. He’d wanted to run after the boy the second he saw him lurking, but had been too afraid that he’d bolt if he did so. “Will you at least eat something first?”

“Mulder, I’m warning you now: if the next words out of your mouth are “Scully, you’re eating for two now” or--”

“Well, it’s true,” Mulder says, waiting until she releases her grip on him to push his chair back and walk to the coffee pot to pour himself another mug. 

Scully watches him, studies the sheepish expression on his face, and despite the possibility of finding William, knows that they need to talk about this. “Mulder,” she calls his name, waiting until there’s not a cup of steaming liquid in his hands before continuing to speak. “Are you happy about this? Or, maybe happy isn’t the right word, but are you okay with it?”

He’s quiet, knowing his next words have to count. “We didn’t get this before, Scully. The first time I saw you when you were pregnant with William, you were already so far along that I felt like I’d missed out on so many things. The first ultrasound, feeling the kicking, all of that,” he says, vividly recalling the first time he’d felt William move. There was a moment, sitting on Scully’s couch, where they could clearly see the impression of a foot poking out at him. “I want to be there for all of that, you know? I want to help you. Just promise if I start being me about it, that you’ll tone me down?”

“If by ‘being you’, you mean being overly protective and constantly asking if I need something, you don’t have to worry about that,” Scully says, quirking an eyebrow as she presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I just worry that we’re too old for this.”

Mulder laughs, leaning in to kiss her cheek. His eyes shift downward to her still flat stomach and he wonders what it’ll look like a few months from now, in awe that he’ll be here to see it all unfold. “Me, maybe? But Scully, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. We’re going to be fine.”

The smile on her face fades then, but she tries her best to tamper down the doubts that poke and prod her mind, whispering that despite Mulder believing it, it might not necessarily be true. It’s odd, she thinks, that they could be so lighthearted, considering where they were less than twenty four hours before. “I’m going to eat breakfast, and then I’m going to go look for him.”

Scully manages to eat a piece of buttered toast and a banana before changing clothes and packing a canvas bag full of supplies, uncertain of the circumstances she’s walking into. She grabs William’s clothes from the dryer, shuddering at the thought of him shivering in the cold with nothing more than Mulder’s borrowed pajamas from the night before. As she puts a few food items--apples, bottled water, some bread and a brick of cheese--she hopes Mulder is right and that he hasn’t strayed far. “Wish me luck,” she says to Mulder, meeting him at the backdoor as she heads out. They’d decided it was best that Mulder stay at the house, provided William should make an appearance unannounced, and also to answer the countless calls from the night before. She laughs to herself as she nears the copse of trees near the back of their property, and she knows she’ll have to thank Mulder later for fielding what she knows will be a lengthy discussion with Kersh. 

She stops outside the barn, tilting her head and studying the graying boards, trying to decide if it looks any different than the last time she recalls seeing it. When they first bought the property years ago, they’d had plans to renovate the space. They’d toyed with the idea of either tearing it down or repairing it and turning it into a functioning barn. Several years went by, and when no farm animals appeared, she suggested the idea they try renovating it into a home office. They could install electricity, she’d said, and insulate it. She’d envisioned painted walls, maybe desks. They’d both dabbled in hobbies over the years, and this seemed like the perfect place to go and think, surrounded by the woods and the quiet and nothing else. Still, years have gone by, and while Mulder has done enough to keep the building standing, it still serves as little more than an overflow storage for what doesn’t fit in the attic. 

Cautiously, she pries open the door, prepared for a cloud of dust, and only a little surprised when there isn’t one. She stands at the entrance for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and scans the area for any sign of movement. Near the middle of the building, just past a large box marked “Christmas Decorations”, she sees the toe of a shoe sticking out, and her heart leaps into her throat. William must have heard her, because as soon as she sees his shoe, he pulls it from view. “You don’t have to talk,” she says, wishing she’d planned out what to say, hoping that words don’t fail her. “I brought you your clothes. And some food, in case you’re hungry.”

She waits, staring at the box of decorations in hopes she’ll see him emerge from behind it. “I don’t know what you like to eat. Or if you’re allergic to anything,” she says, her breath hitching in her chest. What kind of mother doesn’t know what her child can or can’t eat? “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Across the room, William scoots closer to the wall, knowing he’s been made. He pulls his legs to his chest, resting his chin atop his knees, closing his eyes as he hears his mother speak. He’d expected one of them to come looking, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. 

“I’m going to leave the bag here. If you want what’s inside, you’re welcome to it. If you don’t, I’ll understand,” she says, carefully resting the bag on the floor, shoving it a foot or two closer with her boot. “You’ve been through a lot. We all have. I’m sorry for that. You deserved so much more that that. You deserved to be safe, to feel protected,” she continues, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to cry, and already she feels like she’s failing. “You still do.”

William hears the emotion clearly laced through her voice. He remembers the time just a few months ago when he’d been hiding under a nurses’ station desk for safety, and what it felt like hearing her voice along with his father’s for the first time. He recalls the split second between rising up as himself or running away, and he wonders if last night might not have happened had he chosen the former option. 

“Anyway, I’m going to go back inside. I don’t know if you plan on staying here, or if you plan on going somewhere else. But I want you to know that you are always welcome here. Always,” Scully says. She shakes her head, thinking that perhaps it was foolish to cling to the hope that her attempt at connecting with him would work. 

“Hey,” William calls, his voice hoarse. He decides only after he’s called for her to come out from behind the boxes. 

Scully stands with her back to him, sure she’s imagined it. She hears movement, the scraping of cardboard against cement, and turns to face him. She eyes something red and wrinkled in his hand and furrows her brow.

“I wasn’t prying,” William says, turning the object in his hand around so she can see it. There on an ornament cut out of construction paper is a footprint so impossibly small, along with the words “William, Christmas 2001” written in long-decayed silver glitter. He sets it atop one of the boxes, fearing it might crumble in his hands. “I was moving things around, trying to find a place to sit, and one of them toppled over. I tried to put everything back in as best I could. I didn’t break anything.”

She nods, slowly, thinking it’s probably not the greatest idea at such an early stage to tell him she wouldn’t have minded if he had. William being there himself is worth a few rattled ornaments, even if she doesn’t yet know how permanent his appearance in their lives might be. 

“How’d you know I’d be here?” he asks after she doesn’t respond.

“We had a feeling,” she replies with a shrug. She watches as some of the tension dissolves from his posture. “Will you come back to the house?”

“I don’t know that I’m ready for that,” he replies, and the disappoint from her is nearly palpable. Still, there’s a glimmer of hope, a slight whisper in the air that suggests he’s left the door open. He owes this to her, just as much as he owes it to himself. She’s the mother he’s spent his entire life wondering about, so it’s no wonder he has questions. When he closes his eyes, however, he’s met with the man who calls himself a creator, who dares think he’s responsible for anything, and he’s met with the sharp pain of the bullet piercing his skin. He’s lived, although he’s not a hundred percent sure of how, and even though he’s got more questions than answers, he’s just as scared as he is excited of what he might find out once he starts asking them. “Do you understand?” he asks, fearing that she doesn’t. 

“I think so,” Scully replies. The whole situation is surreal, and all she’s left to do is nod her head slowly and remind herself to breathe. She wonders if this will ever get easier.

“I meant what I said, by the way. Even if it wasn’t exactly me that said it. Sorry about that,” he continues, cursing himself as he wishes he’d been able to find better words. When he’d said them, when he’d told her he knew she loved him, there had been a part of him that was sure he’d never see her again. Now, standing mere feet from her, he hopes that kind of doubt never rears its head again, even if he’s not quite ready to cross the bridge just yet.

“It’s okay,” Scully says, knowing nothing about this situation or their circumstances is as it should be. “And as for this,” Scully says, uncertain of how to approach the subject. She rests the palm of her hand against her stomach, still reeling from the reality of the life currently growing inside her. They haven’t talked much about it yet, she and Mulder, but she knows it doesn’t matter if the baby is a boy or a girl, just that he or she is happy and healthy. “It doesn’t change anything. It’s important to me that you know that,” she says, words of love and care hanging unspoken but still just as evident between them. 

“Okay,” William replies. He watches as she claps her hands and purses her lips, and he knows she’s about to go. He thinks maybe he should say something, come up with some reason for her to stay, but there’s another part of him that’s eager to shut the door and delve into whatever food she’s brought him in peace.

“You know where to find us, whenever you’re ready,” she says, nodding once more before turning to go. 

They don’t see or hear him for the first day. When Mulder goes out the following morning, breakfast sandwich and styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, William isn’t there, but there’s evidence he’s stayed. There’s also a note scribbled on the back of a receipt sitting atop the bag Scully brought him, simply saying thanks. Days bleed into weeks, bleed into a month and then two. Their communication with him remains sparse, but once they catch him hauling dead branches away from the trees. He comes to the house, asking to borrow garden gloves, and both are too taken back to question it.

It takes them a while to figure out what he’s doing, that by cleaning the area and straightening things out he’s essentially burrowing a place for himself right next to them. When he’s out one day--neither Mulder or Scully have asked where he goes during the day, on the times they visit him or he happens to come around to borrow first the gloves, then a broom, and even a flashlight--Mulder digs out a stowaway bed they keep for whenever Scully’s family is in town and moves it into the barn. 

No son--or daughter, he tells Scully, because even if it’s too early, he still has a feeling about the new little one--should sleep on the floor, and if he’s not ready to come to the house, he might as well be comfortable.

Scully is standing at the stove checking on the potatoes when she hears a knock at the back door. She’s told William before that he doesn’t have to knock, that he is always welcome, but there is something comforting about the fact her son is still so considerate about such a simple gesture. “Do you need another tarp?” Scully asks, looking past him at the gray clouds looming in the sky. He’d mentioned on his last visit that there was a hole in the roof that he’d been able to patch, but they’d given him a tarp just to be safe. “I could have Mulder go out there, take a look at it. I don’t want rain getting in there, especially when you’ve been putting in so much hard work.”

“It’s fine,” William says, shrugging as he drops the canvas bag on the floor, casually walking past her into the kitchen, holding a white box that appears a little worse for wear. “Do you like donuts? Or, if you don’t, maybe Mulder will. But I didn’t know what kind you might like, so I grabbed whatever was left. There’s a few sprinkles, a couple glazed, and even one that I think is boston cream. Or maybe it’s raspberry jelly, so I guess you’re taking a gamble.”

Scully eyes the box like it’s a bomb that she knows isn’t lethal; like it’s still dangerous to touch even if it won’t explode. In their interactions with William they’ve always been the ones to give him something and not the other way around, so this is new. “You brought us donuts?”  
“Donuts? Where’d you get those? ” Mulder asks, walking into the kitchen with plastic bags laden with produce from the farmer’s market spilling over the edges. “The tomatoes were on sale this week, Scully. If there’s still time, I can make the salad to go with dinner tonight.”

William sets the box on the table, almost thankful they’re both present “I got a job,” he says, surprising himself with how relieved he feels to say it outloud. “At a bakery. Hence the donuts. If you don’t like them, or if you think they’re stupid or whatever, that’s fine. They’re day-olds anyway, but I just thought--”

“Scully was just saying earlier she had a craving for something sweet. She said it was for watermelon, which I got by the way,” Mulder says, setting one of the bags on the table with a subtle thud. He points at the box before looking back up at him. “But if there’s a chocolate glazed in the there, you just might be lucky.”

“Maybe,” William replies, watching as Scully nods and turns her focus back to their dinner. He shifts his gaze about the room, staring at the spice rack by the oven and then the produce as Mulder puts it away, and then his eyes land on a picture affixed to the fridge with a magnet. He’s never really seen one up close, but he has a pretty good suspicion of what he’s seeing as he walks closer to get a better look. “Hey, is that--”

“It is,” Scully replies, having turned to see what he is so focused on. “It’s a girl,” she says, adding the words “your sister” only mentally, but she can tell by the way his expression changes that he’s sensed it somehow. Despite the time they’ve spent around each other, she’s still not used to the things he can do. 

‘Wow,” William replies as he traces the black and white image, seeing her head pretty clearly, but wondering how a doctor could tell what to look for to be able to tell anything for certain. He’s about to say something else when there’s a clap of thunder that rattles the windows, and he jumps, a little embarrassed at being startled by such a normal thing.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Scully asks. The relief she senses from him is a bit of a surprise, but she starts serving the food, prepared to send him off with a to-go plate if he says no.

They’re halfway through dinner when William sets his fork on his plate and wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “So, I was thinking,” he says, ducking his head a little as he speaks.

“Historically,” Mulder replies, leaning in conspiratorially. “Thinking has gotten men in this family into trouble.”

“Do you think you could come take a look at the hole in the roof tomorrow? If you have time,” William replies, quickly shoving a forkful of the potatoes into his mouth before he lets himself say much else.   
Mulder catches Scully’s eye across the table, and he sees the slightest quirk of her brow. They’re both taken back but not entirely surprised by the olive branch William is giving them, so Mulder knows he should take it. “Time is something I have plenty of these days. I’d be happy to.”

“There’s something else,” William says, stirring his peas, watching as the tiny green orbs glide through streaks of grease from the meatloaf across his plate. “Since it’s going to rain, and since the roof out there isn’t fixed, I was wondering if it’s okay for me to crash in here tonight.”

Scully doesn’t have to look back at Mulder to know they’re in agreement on this front. While William’s been in the house on numerous occasions, to borrow things and to use the shower, he’s never been inside for more than an hour or two at a time. This night will be different, and she knows they all know that. “When we finish dinner, I’ll show you upstairs. There’s a room across the hall from ours that you can stay in,” she says. She doesn’t tell him that she changed the linens just recently in hopes that he’d decide to come and stay.

“The hole is worse than I thought, at least I think it is,” William says. He pushes his plate away, signaling that he’s done eating. “It might take time to fix it.”

“You might be right,” Mulder replies. There’s an unasked question in William’s words, the subtle suggestion that he might have to stay more than the previously agreed upon night, but he suspects it’s a good idea to not press the issue too much too soon. “Why don’t you show him upstairs, Scully? I’ll clean up here.”

“Sure,” Scully replies, carefully standing up from the table. She places a hand against the swell of her abdomen, still not entirely used to the idea that her center of gravity has temporarily shifted. Stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, she points a finger at Mulder before gesturing to the box of donuts on the table. “But Mulder? If that chocolate glazed is gone when I get back, you’ll be the one sleeping in the barn tonight,” she says. Her heart warms as she hears William laugh at that, and watches as he moves to put his plate in the sink. She knows that while things won’t always be easy, they’re making progress, no matter how slow. William is sleeping under the same roof as she and Mulder for the first time in years, and for now, that is enough.


End file.
